


that smile on your face like summer

by fletcherstringham



Series: FMA Rarepair Week 2017 [3]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, FMA Rarepair Week 2017, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Trans Girl Fletcher Tringham
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-29
Updated: 2017-09-29
Packaged: 2019-01-07 00:32:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12222090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fletcherstringham/pseuds/fletcherstringham
Summary: It’d be ludicrous to suggest there’s just one thing Alphonse loves about Fletcher Tringham, because so many of her qualities are so inherently lovable; in fact, he’d go as far as to say there’s little about her that’s not worthy of some degree of admiration.





	that smile on your face like summer

**Author's Note:**

> the last of my pieces for [fma rarepair week 2017!!](http://fmararepairweek.tumblr.com/) this one's a teeny bit late, intended for day 3's prompt, 'first kiss.' warning: so sweet that 9/10 dentists discourage reading.

If there’s one thing—

No, scratch that. It’d be ludicrous to suggest there’s just _one thing_ Alphonse loves about Fletcher Tringham, because so many of her qualities are so inherently lovable; in fact, he’d go as far as to say there’s little about her that’s _not_ worthy of some degree of admiration.

Her eyes, for instance—the only stormy thing about her—and the way they light up when she’s particularly enchanted, or excited, or when some bold new idea’s popped into her head. Or her bright, easy smile, infectious as a cold; she’ll try to hide it behind her hands, which is mostly endearing, but a little sad, too—sad to think that someone, consciously or not, taught her to not show her joy, or else not feel it at all.

There’s her laugh, which crackles and pops like a blazing fire, and similarly offers warmth and life. Or the _surety_ with which she knows who she is—adamant that, after so long having to hide it herself, she won’t be denied her identity. Her determination. Her bottomless compassion. The freckles that dust her nose and cheeks and darken in the summer, and the little snuffling noises she makes in her sleep, and even the way she says his name, like it’s music, or it tastes sweet in her mouth: _Al_. She’ll draw out the one syllable while looking at him through hooded eyes, and then she’ll pull back and laugh like she’s startled herself by flustering him, like she didn’t think herself capable of such a thing.

Really, what’s not to love?

But, if Al had to pick one thing that stands out from the rest, in spite of how insanely difficult it would be, he’d pick this: Fletcher doesn’t take anything for granted.

Those tiny blessings in life that most people ignore—the same ones denied to Al all those years, those dark, lonely, hurting years— _she_ doesn’t. They’re walking along a quiet country road at twilight, Fletcher balancing carefully on the crumbling remains of an old stone wall, and Al takes advantage of her concentration to surreptitiously watch her: how she closes her eyes when the breeze tousles her hair, and breathes slowly to pull the sweet summer air deep into her lungs, and smiles as she gazes at the dying light all around her with something close to reverence. These things aren’t meaningless to her, just like they aren’t meaningless to Al. She’ll never understand the true depths of the gratefulness he feels that he gets to experience the world around him again—nor will anyone—but that’s all right: her own unique appreciation of it all, her clear understanding that small does not equal insignificant, that _life itself_ is a gift to nurture and cherish—that’s enough.

So when Fletcher loses her footing, and Al hurries to brace her in his arms so she won’t fall, he doesn’t let himself overthink it. He doesn’t give himself a moment to wonder if this is the wrong moment—too minor, too unimportant—or if screwing up here will damage their relationship permanently. He just holds her tight, one arm around her waist, the other hand cupping the back of her head, and catches her mouth in a kiss, swallowing the surprised little noise she makes like it’s honey to his throat.

She responds in an instant—winding her arms around his neck and leaning into him, heedless at how precarious it renders her balance. Their lips fit together with the certainty of interlocking fingers; Fletcher herself is warm and supple in Al’s embrace, and her hands tangled in his hair smell like tree sap. What kills the kiss isn’t either of them—he could stay like this a hundred years, and he suspects from the tightness of her hug that she shares the sentiment—but gravity, making Fletcher’s shoes scrape against the stones and forcing Al to help right her before she falls into the gap between his body and the ledge.

Still, he doesn’t let her go; he just takes a step closer and fits his arms more snugly around her waist as he gazes up at her—for once shorter, what with the difference in levels. The warm glow of the sunset makes her hair burn gold and her eyes sparkle, deep and blue as the ocean he wants to see with her someday.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asks with a laugh in her voice, tucking some hair behind his ear.

For all her infinite powers of understanding, this is the one thing she can’t comprehend. It’s all right, though. He’s got all the time in the world to convince her of the miracle she is, and he’ll find a way to do it even if it takes all their lives.

Later, though. Right now, he just wants to enjoy their sunset.

“Oh, no reason,” he responds. Fletcher laughs, and everything feels right.


End file.
